


The Gargoyles of St. Joan's

by sakesushimaki



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Childhood, M/M, Post-Canon, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-03
Updated: 2011-07-03
Packaged: 2017-10-21 00:02:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/218583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakesushimaki/pseuds/sakesushimaki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>God will always be there for me. God will never let me down. Who can you say that about?</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gargoyles of St. Joan's

Your umbrella cost four hundred dollars.

You don’t know why anyone would spend this much on an umbrella, but you did. You even specifically went out yesterday to buy it for the occasion, but the motivation is still a mystery to you. It’s not like anyone in there will even notice.

Ducking and looking up from beneath your expensive accessory, you feel ten again. You feel the fear. You feel the same. The four hundred dollars worth of rain protection is the only thing that tells you differently.

The gargoyles look as scary as you remember, perching on their respective roof parts, ugly grimaces on their stony faces. They protect the church, you used to be told. Everything evil or impure is banned at the doorsteps.

You know now that they are an architectural element, that they’re designed to hide the gutters and convey the water away from the walls. But you didn’t know then.

Each Sunday you waited for them to come down on you. Each Sunday you thought it would be your last.

You watch the water sloshing from their mouths for a minute before you turn to the steps.

They do not come down on you.

 

#

 

The first row is for close family. You chose to sit in the third.

“Joan Kinney was a very devoted, steadfast woman. She had endless trust in God,” the priest recites.

It was true even. If anything, she trusted in God.

 _God will always be there for me. God will never let me down. Who can you say that about?_

The answer is the same now as it was then. You will be picking it up at the airport in an hour and a half. You insisted that he comes Friday, not Thursday, like he had planned. Fortunately, he agreed without much discussion.

Him just _knowing_ when something is important to you is one of the reasons why he’s your answer.

Strangely enough, the only person you told about today is Debbie. She pried it out of you three nights ago while you were staring down your empty coffee cup.

“It will be good if you say goodbye. Not for her, but for yourself.”

You didn’t tell her that you’d basically reached the same conclusion alone with your coffee cup.

 _God is just. He deals out what we deserve._

How she ever argued her way out of the irony of having had to live with Jack for thirty-five years still eludes you.

You slide a finger against the prepaid short-term airport parking ticket in your pocket.

You must’ve done _something_ right, after all.

The priest is going on about miracles and salvation and whatever the hell else he’s supposed to preach. Why do people even buy these things?

The couple of ladies in the row across from you look devout, hanging on every word the man utters. Claire sits two rows in front of you, squeezing a tissue in her hand. You wonder if she even realizes that her brats are thumb-wrestling next to her or if she simply doesn’t care.

“Joan Kinney was a supporter of our church and a loving mother.”

And here you thought it was forbidden to lie in church. You want to scoff, but something far darker builds inside you.

She was a fucking poor excuse for a mother and it took you a long time to realize that none of it was your fault. It wasn’t your fault that she was always angry and disappointed and that the only times you ever saw her laugh were at church events where the wine flowed freely. It wasn’t your fault that she had terrible headaches some mornings and that your Froot Loops were soaked in Sherry instead of milk then.

It wasn’t your fault that you couldn’t make her happy.

You started realizing that after you met Mikey. The only thing soaked in Sherry at Mikey’s house was the tiramisu on the Italian national holiday.

“Hey. Sorry I’m late.”

“What the—”

“Don’t start now, okay?” he whispers.

You stare at him, furious, but he doesn’t react.

Later, when you feel his hand covering yours on the cold bench, you realize that you possibly might not be pissed with him at all.

 

#

 

When the priest finally wraps up, you hurry to get the fuck out of there and rush down the stairs. You’re hoping he gets the idea and follows quickly.

He does. He’s your _who-you-can-say-that-about_ , after all.

You’re relieved to feel him behind you as you take the last step down, away from the devout church ladies, away from Joan — finally.

You throw one last look over your shoulder. The gargoyles don’t get you this time either.

“Hello, Brian.”

You’re startled and quickly turn back around. “Hello, Mrs. Miller,” you answer. You wonder how this woman is still alive. She was old already when you lived across from her and used to mow her lawn and sometimes walk her dog when her artificial hip wasn’t up to it. She paid generously and gave you candy. Sometimes you stayed over a bit longer and told her things from school and soccer practice — things mom wasn’t interested in.

“It’s been a while,” she says. “I barely recognized you in there.” She supports herself against the stone wall and gives you the comfortable smile you remember. “You look great, Brian. And I hear you’ve been doing exceptionally well for yourself.”

You feel the urge to thank her, but you’re not sure for what. For the candy, possibly.

“And who is this young man with you?”

“This is Justin.” It isn’t a big thing nowadays, introducing Justin, but it is different with people from the past. You feel Justin’s hand on your back then, silent support, and you remember that you don’t give a fuck what they think. “My partner,” you finish.

She blinks, surprised. Her eyes scan the both of you critically for a moment and you prepare. You would’ve really liked to keep her in your memory as the nice Mrs. Miller from across the road, but things just don’t work out this way. Fuck her.

To your surprise, that comfortable smile finds its way back on her face. “Good for you, Brian. Good for you.”

With a squeeze to your lower arm and one last smile for Justin, she limps to her car.

 

#

 

You drive home in silence. He doesn’t try to discuss anything, doesn’t ask.

After a while, you clear your throat. “So, I guess I wasted eight bucks on an airport parking ticket.”

When you glance at him, you can see the grin expanding on his face. “Yeah, sorry about that,” he says.

At the next red light, you lean over and kiss him — unhurried and perfect. You want to thank him too, but again you’re not sure for what. For not wearing his shabbiest pair of sneakers, possibly.

You’re glad you went to the funeral. It did feel like a proper goodbye.

You think about the ladies in the row across from you again, all devoted and praying with ferventness, and you realize that you might not be bothered by them, after all.

Reaching over the gear shift, you rest your hand on Justin’s thigh. You don’t think you’ve ever done this before while driving, but it feels good. _Great_ even, when he lays his own hand above yours and interlaces your fingers.

Let the church ladies be. Let them have Jesus and salvation and let them have their fucking miracles.

You have your own.


End file.
